


forget your perfect offering

by leigh57



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 12:42:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10922028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leigh57/pseuds/leigh57
Summary: Michonne walks over and holds the dress level with Carol's shoulders, leaning back to give herself a better view. "Damn, that man has you memorized," she mutters under her breath before carefully stretching the dress across Carol's bed, smoothing the fabric to avoid wrinkles. "It's what you're wearing," she announces dramatically. "And you're gonna look so perfect I'll probably be pissed."





	forget your perfect offering

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted Carol to wear a pretty dress ([this is the one I was thinking of](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.google.com%2Fsearch%3Fq%3Dburgundy%2Bdress%26rlz%3D1C9BKJA_enUS708US708%26hl%3Den-US%26prmd%3Dsivn%26source%3Dlnms%26tbm%3Disch%26sa%3DX%26ved%3D0ahUKEwj92Nnd-7jTAhUFbiYKHVmCBYoQ_AUICCgC%26biw%3D1024%26bih%3D653%23imgrc%3D5FgP-w2pesmdwM%3A%26spf%3D1&t=ZWE5NjNjYTIyMmJmNmUxNDk5MjBhOTVkZDUyODlkNGU0ZTY0NDk4ZiwzdkxOZXVYeQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AqC7T6lS57wh1vpnLcdUCXg&p=http%3A%2F%2Fleigh57.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F160699322804%2Ffic-forget-your-perfect-offering&m=0), in case anyone’s interested), and then this happened. If you’re expecting any sort of plot or wildness like that, you’ll be  _so_  disappointed as it’s pretty much allllll smush (with a tiny bit of angst). Idk, apparently I just have ~7k worth of random feelings about them is all.
> 
> The title is from Leonard Cohen’s ‘Anthem,’ which is one of my favorite songs in this universe.

She tries to escape the dance by volunteering to take three consecutive shifts on watch that night.

"You've been pulling at least twice your share for three weeks now." Rosita, arms folded across her sweaty green tank top, snaps a tiny bubble in her disturbingly neon orange gum and stares knives at Carol. "And I'd rather fuck a snake right now than put on some shitty dress and pretend to smile until my face cracks, so you're not stealing my shift."

Aaron's less abrasive but equally stubborn. "Eric and I already figured it all out. I work first shift so he can tend bar and then it's date night. We haven't danced to actual music in years." She doesn't miss the nostalgic expression that flashes over his features and vanishes all too quickly. He pauses, blue eyes darting to different locations on her face as if he's scared that meeting her gaze directly might result in scary consequences. "Besides, I think everyone's-" He stops, words floating like bubbles in the cinnamon-and-clove-scented air of the kitchen. "Everyone's missed you."

Her stomach twists, so many emotions colliding that she imagines she can hear their crunch on impact. But she sets her jaw firmly, determined to keep everything light. Anything else and the cracks might widen and she's not ready to-

Raising a skeptical eyebrow, she stabs a fork into the steaming piece of apple pie on the plate in front of her and shrugs. "I'm almost sure I'm gonna get the flu that night." Throwing him a highly determined look, she blows on the bite of pie not so much because she wants to eat it but because it gives her something to do.

Aaron sighs, and his shoulders drop with a touch of defeat. "Well I wish you wouldn't 'get the flu,'" he says, mocking her with air quotes. "And I'm sure-" He grabs the knife and slices his own piece of pie, swearing and sticking his index finger in his mouth when he burns it while trying to make the transfer to his plate. "I'm sure everyone else does, too."

He leaves her standing in the middle of the quiet kitchen, her only company a crushing sense of panic and a cooling piece of the pie she spent two hours making but no longer wants.

_________________________

She's not even sure whose goddamn idea the dance was.

Probably Tara's.

Or Aaron's.

Even Jesus's, if he was in one of his festive moods.

But ever since they miraculously managed to drive the Saviors away, everyone's been simmering with a dangerous, tantalizing buzz of hope. And somehow, tomorrow night's dance has become the tangible symbol of defiance.

She just wants to spend the night in the watchtower.

Stars, birds, soft wind, night sky, and the cool, comforting bite of her rifle's chill metal under the pads of her fingers.

_________________________

Carol's barely shut the door of her room behind her when a soft knock makes her jump.

_Go the hell away,_ she thinks.

"Come in," she says.

The knob turns and Michonne sticks her head in. "Bad time? I can come back if you're busy."

Carol shakes her head, probably too quickly to be convincing. "It's fine. Do you need me for something?"

Michonne walks all the way into the room and shuts the door behind her, turning to reveal one of the most beautiful dresses Carol's ever seen draped over her arm.

It's a rich, deep burgundy. Floor length. Lace over satin. Cap sleeves and a neckline designed to show off collarbones and . . . whatever else.

"Is that what you're wearing?" Carol closes her hand into a ball to keep from reaching out and touching the fabric, although she's relieved to realize that at least this time her smile feels genuine.

But the sly smirk that transforms Michonne's face instantly erases Carol's half second of ease. "You wish." Michonne walks over and holds the dress level with Carol's shoulders, leaning back to give herself a better view. "Damn, that man has you memorized," she mutters under her breath before carefully stretching the dress across Carol's bed, smoothing the fabric to avoid wrinkles. "It's what _you're_ wearing," she announces dramatically. "And you're gonna look so perfect I'll probably be pissed."

"Listen, I don't know what-"

Michonne silences her with an outstretched hand. "Look, I can't make you put this on and come to the party. But ever since you-" She trails off, rubbing at some dirt on the edge of her arm before she looks back up at Carol. "It would be great to have you there with us to celebrate." She shrugs and then reaches out, her fingers gently squeezing Carol's forearm. "You're one of the reasons we're even alive to do this, and everybody knows that. So promise me you'll at least think about it?"

Carol hesitates, pressing her fingernails into her palm.

Michonne turns toward the door, stopping when her hand closes over the knob. "Enid even asked if she could do your makeup. And Carl's so happy you're back."

_Damn, you're good,_ Carol thinks, her insides spinning like a washing machine on the high-speed cycle.

"I'll think about it," she mutters, glancing again at the dress's vibrant sheen.

"Good."

"Michonne?"

She stops halfway through the door and looks back. "Yeah?"

"Where'd this dress come from?"

Michonne grins, her eyes lit up with some kind of mischief that makes Carol even more uncomfortable. "Daryl brought it back from a run a few days ago. He said he was trying to make sure everyone who wanted to go had something to wear, but strangely enough, you're the only woman in these walls with the right proportions to fit that dress." She lifts a nonchalant shoulder, each word and gesture steeped in sass. "Probably coincidence though."

The door clicks shut before Carol has a chance to respond.

She reaches for the dress, smoothing the satin between her thumb and forefinger.

Irresistibly drawn to the softness.

_________________________

When Carol was in seventh grade, four days before the very first middle school dance, Bobby Davidson stopped by her locker after eighth period and -- with bright red cheeks and feet that couldn't settle for even a second -- asked her if she wanted to go with him.

She and her best friend Katie McKinnon (her full name was Kathleen but she hated it) had both had a crush on Bobby since he moved into their district halfway through fourth grade. Once she'd blushed four hundred shades of pink, nodded shyly, and watched him walk toward the front entrance with a new bounce in his stride, the first thing Carol thought was that Katie would most likely kill her.

But that whole problem was solved five minutes later, when Katie careened around the corner from the band room, practically skidded to a halt in front of their lockers, and announced with what seemed to be the last breath she had left in her, "Oh my god, Carol. Parker Thompson just asked me to go to the dance with him."

(Parker Thompson was only the most popular boy in middle school. He never wore jeans, only those creased khaki pants with the tailored cuffs. He was captain of the basketball team and his dad drove a white Mercedes that remained mysteriously clean, regardless of the weather. His grades would have put him at the top of their class if Carol hadn't already occupied that spot by a comfortable margin.

He didn't like her very much, but apparently that hadn't discouraged him from liking her best friend.)

And just like that, there was nothing to worry about except what to wear and how to fix her hair.

_________________________

Katie almost hyperventilated in Carol's bathroom while they were finishing each other's makeup. Carol dropped the tube of fuchsia lipstick on the counter and pushed her friend's head between her knees. "Breathe _slowly_ , okay?"

It took a few minutes and some distraction from ABBA, but before long Katie was dusting peach-colored blush over her cheeks and kissing a white square of toilet paper to blot her lipstick. "How did you even get my hair to look this perfect?" she asked Carol, her dark blond curls shiny in the bright bathroom light.

Carol grinned, grabbing Katie's hand. "Come on, they're waiting!"

Bobby Davidson bought her a white lily wrist corsage that looked perfect against the deep blue taffeta dress she'd spent six months of babysitting money on.

Skinny and awkward, they slow danced to Elvis and Otis Redding, knees and elbows jutting everywhere.

Bobby talked a lot about cars and basketball, and Carol listened eagerly, not so much because she was fascinated by his choice of subject material but because she was so grateful not to have to come up with topics herself.

They drank bright red Hawaiian Punch that was much too sweet and made Carol feel lightheaded and almost sick.

After the dance and a quick reshuffling to spread chairs on the gym floor, Principal Adamson put on _Casablanca_.

When Ilsa said, "Kiss me as if it were the last time," Bobby pulled Carol's sweaty hand into his lap and laced his fingers with hers.

She stared at the screen with glistening eyes and a slamming heart, convinced that nothing on earth would ever make her feel so important again.

But that was another lifetime.

Back when hope wasn't roughly synonymous with poison.

Back when she still believed there was magic left in the world.

_________________________

Sophia never went to a dance.

She never frowned at herself in the mirror, trying to blot her lipstick just right or pluck her eyebrows or figure out how much to curl her hair.

She never held up dress after dress, finding some tiny flaw in each one until she dropped dramatically onto the bed, too overwhelmed with her choices to make a decision.

She never paced the length of her own room in precariously high heels, trying to master the art of balance before the big night.

She never lifted her chin for her first kiss, Cherry Coke and bubble gum chapstick and the rush of endless possibility.

Carol wishes she could think of anything else as she squeezes her sheet into her fists and rearranges her body in bed for what has to be the fifteenth time.

But she'll never know what it would have been like, kissing her baby goodbye and watching her disappear in a swirl of perfume and laughter.

One more question mark she'll never erase.

In the empty darkness she buries her face in her pillow and desperately hopes heaven exists, even if she might not make it.

_________________________

The next morning she wakes up before the sky is even light.

She wiggles around for a few minutes before giving up and staring at the ceiling, counting the minutes before she can reasonably go downstairs and find a way to distract herself from the inevitable.

The dress is draped over the back of the chair by her bed, taunting her with a slight shine from the hall light.

She shuts her eyes and turns away, curling her body into the cool softness of her pillow.

And the thing is, she's glad to be back. She is.

But nothing's natural. Not yet.

She still halts conversations just by walking into a room.

People she doesn't even know give her curious, sympathetic looks when she passes them on her way to take watch.

(She wonders what Rick and Tobin told them about her abrupt departure, but she doesn't care enough to ask.)

Daryl's the only person she doesn't seem to make uncomfortable just by breathing.

_________________________

She isn't sure exactly how it happened, but the two of them have fallen into the habit of taking a walk together after dinner.

The first night they all eat together, she ducks out just so she can breathe, so the walls stop moving closer. And a second later she can feel him beside her, the cadence of his footsteps so familiar she doesn't even have to glance sideways.

"I'll go if you wanna be alone," he blurts out before she can even think of something to say. She can't fight the tug at the edges of her mouth. He's so free of bullshit, so accepting of whatever she does or doesn't give back. And maybe, just maybe, that's why he's the only person who helps quiet the screaming in her her brain rather than amplifying it by a factor of ten.

"No, stay." She sneaks a glance at him but he's staring down the road, a dark smear of grease still decorating the side of his neck from when he was working on one of the trucks earlier. "I just needed fresh air for a minute."

"Yeah." She thinks he might add something else, but in his usual fashion he falls silent and lets his stride slip into rhythm with hers.

He doesn't say another word through the entire loop around Alexandria, but the quiet isn't awkward or strained.

When they're almost to the steps of the house, his fingers brush her upper arm so softly she'd think she imagined it if she hadn't seen it happen. "Hey. You okay?" His voice is still so scared, and she's slammed again with the realization that he's not remotely convinced she won't run.

"Yeah, I am."

He nods, but remains still, his body showing no signs of movement toward the house.

"Daryl."

He looks at her then, his face a mess of emotions she wasn't ready to deal with the day he showed up at the door of her house and she isn't ready to deal with now. But she manages to keep her voice firm and strong when she says, "I mean it. I'm okay."

"Gonna walk again tomorrow night?"

She grins. "Probably."

"Tell me if y'want company."

"I do. Want company." Her response is fast and thoughtless and straight from some scary place inside her she still tries to dodge when she's quick enough. But he's too fast for her as usual.

"Good." And then he's taking the steps two at a time, probably to make sure he shuts the door before she can change her mind.

_________________________

After that the walks become a habit.

They rarely say much, maybe some conversation about the supplies they'll need soon or how her garden's coming along or when he plans to go hunting again.

Still, she looks forward to it every night, and on the days when he's out hunting past dinner or gone on a run with Aaron or Rosita or Jesus, she misses it.

Misses him.

_________________________

She's toweling her hair dry when there's a knock on the door so soft she wouldn't have even heard it had she not been dreading it since pre-dawn.

"Carol?" Enid's timid voice barely carries through the wood.

She walks over and pulls the door open to find Enid standing there looking like something out of one of those princess books she used to read to Sophia. Part of her hair is pulled up in a careful twist, while the rest falls over her shoulders in a mass of soft waves. Her eyeshadow has flecks of gold, and she's wearing a royal blue dress that picks up the gems in the earrings Maggie must have loaned her.

"You look stunning."

"Oh god, thank you." Enid's face heats instantly. "I feel so fake. Maggie made me sit still for like an hour and a half. I think my foot's still asleep." She hesitates, clears her throat. "So no pressure, but Michonne said that you were at least thinking about the dance and maybe I could help with your makeup?"

Carol looks at the girl, watches as Enid fidgets with the satin that edges her sleeve.

She's only a little older than Sophia would be now, and only a little younger than Carol was when she and Katie McKinnon decided to to to the prom together because they'd both been dumped within the preceding month.

"It's fine if you don't want to," says Enid hastily, already backing toward the door.

"No, I'm going." The words feel tangible in her mouth, like she ate one too many marshmallows and they've got nowhere left to go. But she manages anyway. "I can't remember the last time I wore lipstick. Will you help me pick a good color?"

The burst of pure happiness on Enid's face instantly makes the night almost worth it.

_________________________

The night Carol went to prom with Katie, they spent two hours getting ready because they were so determined to make sure that Adam and Gerald deeply regretted their terrible life choices.

She remembers blood red lipstick and way too much blue eyeshadow, flatironing her hair for what felt like hours, popping Hershey kisses as they laughed and listened to The Stones, and almost falling down the stairs because she was determined to wear the stilettos she'd never figured out how to walk in.

At the dance, Ed Peletier -- who'd only spoken to her maybe twice in her life, and even then only to ask her for help with trig homework -- strolled over the second that "Crazy" started floating from the speakers.

(No matter how many times she thinks of this moment, the irony's never lost on her.)

"Would you like to dance?" He smelled like expensive cologne and possibly Scotch, not that she was highly familiar with the latter.

Her face hot, she twisted the pearl stud in her ear and said, "Sure, but just this one. I'm here with my friend."

"Just the one then," he replied, extending his hand just like she'd seen men do it in the movies.

And he'd been true to his word, surprising the hell out of her by raising her fingers to his lips and brushing a kiss over them as the last few bars of the song faded. "Have fun with your friend. Maybe you'd like to get a burger after school next week?"

"Carol, let's gooooo." Katie rushed up, flushed and impatient.

Carol barely had time to turn and nod at Ed before Katie pulled her away to the car.

Just like they'd planned on the phone weeks ago, they drove to the lake at the edge of town. They stripped off their stockings and hung their bare feet off the dock, flinging droplets of water that caught the moonlight as they arced through the cooling night air.

And they opened the bottle of gin Katie had stolen from her grandpa's liquor cabinet, passing it back and forth as they worked on the bag of sour cream and onion potato chips wedged between them.

She can still feel the burn of the alcohol stinging its way down her throat and warming her stomach.

Still taste the leftover salt from the chips as she licked the tips of her fingers.

Still see the glowing light circling the moon as it rose higher and higher in the sky.

Still hear the uncontrolled laughter bubbling up from inside her as she and Katie got more and more drunk and more and more silly.

It was the last time she was really free.

_________________________

"So do you think gold?" Enid holds up the tiny eyeshadow compact. "Or silver?" She brandishes one in each hand.

"I think-" Carol hesitates, glancing toward the dress laid out on the bed. "Maybe silver?"

Enid flashes a delighted smile. "I was hoping you'd pick silver. It's gonna be so perfect with that dress." She shoves the gold compact aside. "Close your eyes."

_________________________

She stares at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, fascinated and a little awed by the face that looks back at her.

Her lips are a rich shade of burgundy that almost perfectly matches her dress, and they shine because Enid insisted on just a touch of that roll-on lip gloss that tastes like cotton candy.

Her cheeks are a warm plum with barely a hint of sparkle from the bronzer Enid added at the last minute.

Her eyes -- carefully outlined with deep navy eyeliner and the shimmer of silver eyeshadow -- radiate a much deeper blue than usual.

It's been so many decades since she even tried to wear makeup, to put on fancy clothes, to look pretty.

She's aware that objectively, she's lovely. Stunning even.

But the only part of the face staring back at her from the mirror that feels as if it belongs to her is the quiet sadness that lingers in her eyes, comfortable and familiar.

Somewhere long ago and far away, tucked back in corners of her mind she hasn't visited in decades, she remembers what it was like to walk into a room and turn heads, to stop the action for a split second.

She can feel the music from downstairs vibrating the soles of her feet.

She doesn't want to go.

She wants to stay here, appreciate the picture for a minute, then wash her face and get in bed.

But she gets up, checks her eyeliner one last time, and walks to the door.

_________________________

She makes it down the stairs unnoticed and slips around the corner into the kitchen, surprised but grateful to find the room empty. Pouring herself a glass of cold water, she takes small sips as she steals a look into the crowded living room.

Rick and Michonne are in the corner, pretending to slow dance but it's more a conversation with occasional slight swaying. Michonne is breathtaking in an emerald green sheath that showcases her shoulders. Carol's never seen her in makeup either, and she's delighted by how happy Michonne looks -- cherry red lipstick, brilliant green eyeshadow that matches her dress, and her face intent on whatever Rick's saying to her.

Carl and Jesus are engaged in what appears to be a very serious arm wrestling match, although since Jesus looks as if he's already done at least three or four shots, she gives Carl even odds if not better.

Morgan's "dancing" with Judith, her bare feet on his shoes and her tiny hands in his. Carol's heart hurts watching them, because if there's anything she understands, it's the pain that will always lurk beneath the surface of the enchanted grin Morgan's currently wearing. Doesn't matter though. Judith's bouncing and giggling, the hem of her magenta dress swishing around her pudgy legs, and for now that's so much more than enough.

"Nah, don't move. I'll grab some more paper plates. Just gimme a sec-" Daryl's words drift off and blend into the lyrics of "Purple Rain" as his eyes land on her and he just . . . stops.

"Damn."

For the longest moment, he's both looking at her and doing everything but -- his eyes flitting from her face to her shoulder to the counter to her legs to the sink to her face to her hair and finally back to her eyes.

"You look-" He shakes his head a tiny bit, and a shy grin touches the edge of his lips. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you." She swallows and takes a gulp of her water, suddenly warmer than she was a minute ago.

This gives her a chance to realize she's not the only one who spent some time getting ready for the festivities.

Daryl's wearing dark jeans without a hole in sight and a deep grey, long-sleeved henley. His hair's so freshly washed it's not even quite dry, and he's pushed it away from his face, which at this exact moment is flushed an adorable shade of hot pink.

"You look pretty nice yourself." She says the sentence kind of as if it's all one word.

"Finally took a shower, like you said," he replies, deadpan, and the laughter that bubbles up in her at the memory makes it easier to breathe.

The music changes, some Chicago ballad she remembers from what feels like five lifetimes ago.

"You wanna dance?"

The question is so unexpected that it takes her a second to realize her facial expression must look as if he suggested parachute-free skydiving. "You . . . dance?"

Daryl shrugs. "Ain't good at it, but Merle wouldn't leave me alone until I learned a few things. Always tryin' to get me a date." He shifts on his feet and stares at the floor. "'S'fine if you don't feel like it. I'll grab the plates and-"

"No, I'd love to."

He reaches for her hand (astonishing her again, his palm warm and a little sweaty where it touches hers) and leads her into the living room. Everyone's paired up. Rick and Michonne. Carl and Enid. Aaron and Eric. Father Gabriel's apparently trying to teach Judith how to lead and that's not going too smoothly. Her tiny peals of laughter drift through the air.

Daryl holds Carol's hand and slips an arm around her waist, pulling her a little closer, but not enough to make her uncomfortable. That's when she smells the distinctive scent of whiskey floating over his cinnamon toothpaste. "Are you drunk?" she asks, laughter in her voice.

"Tryin' to be, yeah," he answers with a sigh. "This is a fuckin' nightmare. Was just waitin' for you to come downstairs, but I didn't think-"

"That I'd show up at all?"

He shakes his head. "That you'd look like-" He swallows. "There's no way to be ready for that dress."

"You _are_ drunk."

He pulls back a fraction to look at her, and his eyes are suddenly very serious. "Y'think I gotta be drunk to notice your dress?"

_Goddammit._

"I didn't mean that." (She kind of did mean that, but apparently it was the wrong answer.)

"Good." And he surprises her again by letting the momentary flare of irritation pass and drawing her back toward him, this time closer than before. She forces herself not to tense, because even though it makes her strangely nervous, dancing with him like this feels so . . . nice. She lets her chin rest on his shoulder and moves to the music, surprised by how good at this he is, even though she probably shouldn't be if Merle was his teacher. A few yards away, Carl's not having quite as much luck, and she bites her lip to keep from grinning as Enid yelps, "Ow!" and dissolves into giggles again while Carl's face flushes.

The music stops for a second. There's the plastic click of CD cases colliding while Eric searches for his next choice and then she hears the first bars of "Crazy For You."

When Sophia was in preschool, Carol would turn on the '80s station as soon as Ed had been gone for at least half an hour and there was no chance he'd come bursting back through the door, red-faced and cursing about something he'd forgotten. She could see herself humming absently, dancing around the kitchen while she carefully measured out the ingredients for perfect slow-cooker meatballs (although she could never put in as much spice as she liked because Ed would start yelling about how she was trying to give him an ulcer). She had no idea why she loved it so much, because the song left her feeling empty, lost, like something inside her was endlessly wishing and reaching for the impossible. She stirred cracker crumbs into ground beef and blinked away tears as she realized she'd never get the chance to feel that way about anyone, or know what it felt like to have someone feel that way about her. Lots of songs got to her a little bit in one way or another, but this one was different for some reason. Usually by the time it was over, she'd find herself staring out the window or at some neutral point on the blue flowered wallpaper in front of her. And she never once forgot to wash and dry her hands -- making sure not a touch of grease or flour was left over -- before she set the radio back to the terrible country station Ed loved. Sometimes, in hopes that it might improve his mood, she turned it on before he even drove into the garage.

"You okay?"

Daryl's voice almost startles her and she glances up to see the expression of puzzled concern on his face.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry, this song makes me-" But she doesn't even know the word she's looking for or have a clue what to add without deepening her own discomfort (and his too, she's sure).

"D'you wanna get out of here?" Daryl's voice is so low she can barely make out the words over Madonna's chorus. "Help me finish the Jack Daniels I stashed on the porch?"

"Yes _please_ ," she replies, and she should probably care about the edge of desperation that sharpens her words but she doesn't.

"Let's go." Daryl touches her elbow lightly to guide her toward the door, and a warm shiver spreads up her arm to the back of her neck, sparking in her hair.

_________________________

"So you were probably prom queen or some shit like that, right?" Daryl takes another impressively large swig from the bottle they're sharing and hands it back to her, clearing his throat a little as the liquor goes down.

They're leaning on the porch railing, staring out into the empty street. The only thing moving is the tiny outline of Rosita, pacing back and forth on the watch platform. It's a gorgeous night, the air cool enough to be refreshing without making her wish she had a sweater, and it's clear enough that she can see clusters of stars, the moon hanging like a shimmery sliver in the sky. The breeze feels soft and comforting as it lifts her hair, and she listens to the eerie, faraway hoot of an owl looking for dinner mixed with the muffled laughter drifting through the living room windows. She kinda wishes she'd rejected the pumps though. It's only been a couple hours and she's already losing circulation in her toes. If there's one positive side effect of having walkers everywhere, it's that comfortable shoes are encouraged.

She smirks at Daryl before taking her own oversized gulp. The liquid fizzes in her mouth and burns in her throat. It's not even good and she doesn't enjoy the taste at all, but she does enjoy the fierce spread of warmth that radiates off her skin the instant the alcohol hits her stomach (thanks to all of her pre-dance anxiety, she's eaten nothing today except half a chocolate bar Tara stole for her after their latest run, so the alcohol has an instant effect).

"Actually, smartass, I went to prom with my best friend Katie, because Adam Jakowski dumped me three weeks before."

"The fuck was wrong with that dickhead?" Daryl blurts out, kicking the tip of his boot against the railing.

She takes another long swallow and hands the bottle back to him, her fingers brushing his as they make the swap. "Doesn't matter. He was an asshole anyway. I think he wound up a hedge fund manager." She smooths the satin of her dress between her fingers. "Katie and I got ridiculously drunk and ate a lot of sour cream and onion potato chips." She laughs, the sound echoing down the quiet street. "One of the best nights of my life, honestly." She stares at one perfectly polished fingernail and her words are much quieter when she adds, "Which probably sounds pathetic."

"It doesn't."

Each word lands with vehemence she hadn't expected, and his shoulders tense before he raises the bottle to his lips again.

"Besides, I can top it," he mutters.

"Yeah?"

He hands the whiskey back to her and chokes out half a laugh, shaking his head. "There was this girl," he explains, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Melinda Tomlinson." His thumb rubs circles on the smooth wood of the railing. "I knew I could never get her to go to prom with me or any shit like that, but I just wanted to buy her a Coke or a sundae after school." He shrugs, locking his elbows and pushing against the railing to stand up straighter. "So one day I bothered to put on my only shirt that didn't have holes in it and I stole a pair of the jeans Merle saved for when he really wanted to score. And I asked her if she'd go to the ice cream shop with me after school."

The warmth of the alcohol seems far away now; she can tell where this story is going and it makes her cold inside. She squeezes her hands into fists and waits.

"She told me she didn't go out with guys who fix bikes for a living and have brothers who fuck hookers." He adds, "Her words," as if he suddenly needs to apologize for profanity. After one long, slow breath, he continues. "So on prom night I stole Merle's truck, drove three hours to this lake in the middle of nowhere, went swimming in the dark until I bumped up against some fuckin' thing I wasn't taking any chances on, and then drank so much that I woke up in the bed of the truck the next afternoon, half naked and sunburned as hell."

The words are flat, emotionless, like he's telling her that they'll need to find salt on the next run or reminding her that she should bring in the seedlings because it's probably gonna rain overnight. But his voice cracks in a few giveaway places and so does her heart.

Without even thinking, she takes the three steps required to close the distance between them and presses her arm right up against his, hard, taking three gulps of whiskey without even pausing to breathe.

He reaches for the bottle, grinning. "You might wanna slow down there. When was the last time you ate anything?"

"Shut up, I'm perfectly-" But at that precise second the whole world starts to shift a little. The trees aren't standing up like they're supposed to and the fence tilts at the wrong angle to the ground. Rosita looks as if she's walking up the platform instead of across it.

Daryl's arms have her instantly, and she's leaning back against his chest wondering why everything is spinning. "You were sayin'?" he asks, but his sarcasm is all affection and no edge. "Let's give this chair over here a try."

In one effortless movement, he swings her up and gently deposits her in the huge Adirondack chair at the far corner of the porch. Before she can open her mouth to protest, he's pulling her shoes off and sitting them neatly on the floor. "Maybe I should go make us some coffee," he offers, glancing toward the living room, undecided. Now that she's sitting down he's only moving in her vision a tiny bit.

"Stay with me for a few more minutes first?" She knows she's drunk because clearly her filter is set to all the way off, but in this exact moment it feels great.

Powerful.

_Free_.

"I'm not ready for tonight to be over yet."

"Me neither, surprisingly enough," he mutters, and the words are so quiet that if she knew him any less well she'd be 98% sure she imagined them. But he strides over and settles into the chair next to her, his body warm and comforting where it presses against her skin. She notices that he's not holding himself away from her, that he's letting his muscles relax.

They stay like that for a few minutes, and Carol stretches her newly-freed feet, feeling the numbness turn to pins and needles while she tries to guess which song is playing just from the beat. Might be "Billie Jean." They continue to pass the bottle back and forth, but she makes sure to keep her sips a whole lot smaller now.

The party sounds as if it might be winding down inside when she turns her face towards Daryl and says, "Well maybe-" at the exact moment he turns his towards her and says, "We should probably-"

And they both stop.

His eyes are so blue and confused even in the half-darkness of the porch, and she was sure that whole thing where it actually gets harder to breathe was probably only in crappy romance novels but apparently she was wrong because she feels like she doesn't have enough air and her face is very, very hot all of the sudden.

She can't help dropping her eyes to look at his lips; it's nothing more than a tenth of a second but she knows he didn't miss it.

Then she realizes he's doing the same thing, and her heart is slamming so fast she'd probably be scared if she didn't have at least five other things worrying her more.

The music from inside is definitely some sort of ballad now. She's guessing "Almost Paradise."

She lets her eyes meet Daryl's again, and the expression she finds there undoes what little was left of her resolve.

Years later, when her mind wanders while she's making soup or waiting for him to come to bed or _this close_ to falling asleep with her fingers wrapped around his arm, she'll wonder what it was. The whiskey? The music? The chair? The stars?

But she licks the sting of Jack Daniels off her own lips and whispers, holding his gaze so he'll know for certain that she's not joking this time, "On the off chance you're wondering if I'd like you to kiss me, I would." She swallows. "Like you to kiss me."

His eyes widen, and for an agonizing, never-ending moment that hangs there in the quiet darkness like every terrible decision she's ever made, he doesn't move or speak.

And then he shifts just enough to free his arms, takes her face in both of his hands, looks at her for another long beat (but this time with enough of a smile in his eyes that at least she starts to breathe again), and touches her lips with his.

His kiss is soft at first, so gentle and tentative that it's barely there. He's tilting her face ever so slightly each time his lips touch hers, moving slowly, like he's making a map of her mouth.

But it's not even close to enough for her.

"Daryl," she whispers.

"Hmm?" He sucks on her lower lip, barely-there pressure, and her whole body is humming.

"More," she says, pushing his hands away and somehow managing (in a maneuver much more graceful than she deserves after that much whiskey) to toss one of her thighs over his so she's facing him, kneeling over his lap while she looks at his flushed face and forces herself not to think.

Instead, she picks up right where they left off, only this time she's the one making the rules. Her tongue smooths over his lower lip and she can feel the vibration that rises from his chest. Her heart's still slamming, but now it's in the best way, and she smiles when he opens his mouth to her kiss and lets her slide her tongue over his. She breathes in the whiskey and the peanut butter M&Ms he'd been eating before they came out here and honestly they shouldn't taste good together at all but it's perfect and she can't get enough. His hands glide up the back of her dress, fingers trailing over her shoulder blades and the bones of her spine until he's stroking the sides of her neck with his thumbs.

She can't remember the last time _anything_ felt this good.

It isn't until the back of his index finger is absently brushing the top of her breast where it barely shows in her shiny dress that he shakes his head and takes her hands, pulling back.

"Hey, we gotta stop." He's gentle, but his grip on her hands is very firm.

"You don't wanna-"

He shakes his head, and the smile he breaks into in the next half second makes her feel melty all over again. "I _do_ wanna." He takes one of her hands and holds it between his, kissing her knuckles, his chapped lips a little rough yet still soft. "But not when we've pretty much finished a bottle of whiskey between us."

"Being sober's not gonna change my mind," she mutters, lifting herself off him in a move a great deal less graceful than the one that landed her there and squishing herself into the corner of the chair. They’re both tense now, breathing hard.

"It's not gonna change my mind either." She feels his hand on her chin, tilting her head in his direction. "Hey. Look at me, please?"

She does, finally, letting her eyes drift up to meet his. The expression in his eyes is softer and more open than she's ever seen it (save maybe for a split second when she found him after Terminus), and any irritation she was trying to feel evaporates. "I just wanna remember everything," he says, and he rubs his thumb over her cheekbone before dropping his hand. "That's all."

Her eyes sting and her throat tightens, but she doesn't let herself look away when she reaches down to slip her hand into his. "Well, this isn't even _close_ to how I thought tonight would go," she blurts out.

"Me neither." His thumb strokes the side of her wrist. "Figured you wouldn't show up and I'd probably get shit-faced and pass out in Aaron and Eric's garage." He leans his head back against the chair's dark wood and lets out a long breath. "Gotta admit, this is a hell of a lot nicer."

She rolls her eyes but regrets it immediately, closing them to shut out the swirl. "Wow, that was so much whiskey."

"Shit, I shoulda stopped you." She feels the brush of his fingers pushing her hair off her forehead.

"I wasn't exactly shoving the bottle away."

"Want me to sneak in there and bring you some Advil?"

"I should just go to bed. Shit, I have to make it across the whole living room to go upstairs." She winces, squinting at the light that glows through the window and outlines the bodies of everyone who's still dancing.

"Close your eyes. I'll wake you up and make sure you get upstairs when they're all gone."

"Daryl, that's ridic-"

"You think there's anyplace on earth I'd rather be right now?" He pauses, and she can feel his shoulder lift by her cheek as he breathes. "'Cause there ain't."

And it hits her.

She was wrong, dancing in the kitchen making meatballs, a decade and at least four lifetimes ago.

_To him, she's the most important thing._

She always has been.

The realization makes her feel even more lightheaded, and she's not ready to deal with any of the mutinous feelings that are ganging up on her from every hidden passageway in her mind she thought she'd sealed off and bolted shut.

So she rearranges herself a little, to make it easier for her to rest her head on his shoulder.

"You good?" he asks, his fingers warm where they land on her forearm.

"Very," she whispers, letting her eyes slip shut again. She listens to the cellos that sound surprisingly far away and realizes that -- in spite of the epic headache she's guaranteed to have -- for the first time in years, she's not dreading the morning.

She's looking forward to it.

*********************************************************


End file.
